Ralph sat upright in his recliner, his legs splayed out before him. His hands, resting between his knees, quavered furiously. Ralph sighed. How, he thought, could he ask Elizabeth to marry him when he couldn’t even hold out the engagement ring without shaking like a cornstalk in the wind?
Would she laugh at him? he wondered. No, Elizabeth wasn’t cruel, but how could she possibly not feel the revulsion that Ralph felt for himself? She wouldn’t give voice to that emotion, but that only made it worse. Ralph had once owned a three-legged dog, but his father had scolded him, saying he should settle for nothing less than perfection, and dad had the dog put to sleep. When Ralph subsequently developed his tremor, his father had regarded him as something less than he had before.
In 1930s Germany, Ralph knew, he would have suffered sterilization so that his infirmity could not be passed on to future generations. Or, he might have himself been put to death. He let out a breath. Why me? he used to wonder. At length, he had conjured an answer: Why not me? Besides, by now, he was used to it. He took up the jeweler’s box and extracted the ring, weighed it in his palm, contemplated his intense, primal love for Elizabeth for a moment, then said aloud, “I’ll ask her. Tonight!”
They sat in his living room, a fire crackling in the fireplace on this, the night before Christmas. The tree scented the room with balsam. Ralph was nervous. He had never asked anyone to marry him before; he’d never had the nerve. Also, he had never been in love before. She sat beside him on the sofa, waiting expectantly, he thought. He held the jeweler’s box behind a throw pillow; he didn’t want to frighten her away. Could she really accept him? he wondered desperately.
He was not anyone’s idea of perfection, certainly not his father’s. His childhood rejection by his dad figured prominently in Ralph’s memory, and it’s what made him the man he was today. Elizabeth, on the other hand, was perfection itself. He had never known a nobler, more exquisitely lovely creature before. If she said yes, then she would be his mate, his lover, his wife. A bead of perspiration appeared on his brow. Nervously, he wiped it away with the hand holding the box.
“What’s that, Ralph?” Elizabeth asked unexpectedly.
“Huh?” he said stupidly, hiding the box again. But it was too late.
“What have you got there, Ralph?” she asked anew, pointing to the hand holding the ring box.
Ralph brought the box into view and murmured, “Liz, I was going to ask you…ask you to marry me.”
“Have you changed your mind?” she asked boldly.
He blinked. “No…No, I…Will you marry me, Liz?” he implored. “I know I have a lot of faults,” he began. “But, I love you, and…”
“Shut up, Ralph,” she said gently. “You had me at “Will you marry me?’ “
Ralph smiled, leaned in for a kiss, being careful not to bump Elizabeth’s walker.
Are you still 66? I’m 60 now. I’ve done the best I could since your death.
Do you remember when you told your friend that “only Leslie is unsettled”? I was 30 then, the night before you died. That’s when you said it, at the theater; I overheard you. I know you meant that you wanted me to marry and have a family. Later I broke up with Dany. I married Val, the one you thought had a nice voice, from Iran. You had a conversation with him once in the living room while I was in the kitchen. You told him that you had a relative from Iran, and I walked in when you said that, surprised.
Dad was very lonely without you. I thought he would never let me go. He convinced Val to move in when we got engaged. And after the wedding, he made it nice for Val to stay. Too nice! We finally moved to 53rd and 8th Avenue, all the way up on the 20th floor. I wish you could have seen it. I was close to Central Park and Lincoln Center and Coliseum Books and Lechters.
Debi and I used all your tickets to the opera. We didn’t like it at first, but we’d make a day of it: lunch with Susie, Martha, and Anna Burak, and sometimes Tower Records afterwards to get the CD of the opera we’d just seen. I wore your fur-lined coat and mostly took naps in your seat. Then, one night Placido Domingo sang Nessun Dorma, and I cried so much, but I was really crying for you. I feel, when I am at the opera house, that you are near me. It is almost unbearable.
Beatrice dated Dad for a few months. She wore your clothes, used your Dooney and Bourke wallet, like she wanted to be you. She even offered to brush my hair and I let her. They broke up, and a few years later her cancer returned and she passed away.
Aaron was born in the same hospital where you had me, and – can you believe it? – my OB was trained by Dr. Landsman. When I went into labor, I had to fill out forms at the hospital, and where it asked for the mother’s name, instead of writing my name, I wrote yours.
Aaron looked just like you when he was born, and I gave him the middle name Yves in your honor. I was out-of-my-mind in love with him. In all the blissful moments of his babyhood, I felt like you were a part of me, delighting in him.
Oliver is your last grandchild. Again I was in love. We moved to the Parker Towers, a rental across the street from Debi’s building in Queens. It reminded me of our old Kew Gardens apartment. It was the same set-up: two-bedroom, two-bath, eat-in kitchen, balcony, a friendly doorman, the same whoosh of air when you closed the front door. I had a view of the World Trade Center, your favorite place to take out-of-towners.
Val and I split up soon after Oliver was born. Everything about being with Val became too difficult. Also, we didn’t have any help, and I had to do everything you did for me and work in an office as well. He moved out, and I was a single mother until Oliver’s fourth birthday.
Those were difficult years, with little money and a lot of loneliness. Debi was my constant companion, like a mother to me and also my best friend. Dorian was kind, leaving me cash in my junk drawer and paying for my airfare to visit him. He called me all day long. Once when I was in California visiting him, his cellphone rang and everyone looked around wondering who it could be because I was right there.
Dad married Anna Greenberg’s cousin Nina. After that, we were no longer welcome at his house unless we were expressly invited. If we were invited, I couldn’t even get a glass of water without asking. Once, when my boys were with Val for the weekend, I called Dad to see if he wanted my company. “Another time,” he said. He didn’t know that I was parked outside. Then I saw Anna’s son pull up with his family. He had Chinese food. He walked in as if the house were his.
After we divorced, Val and I fell in love again. He moved back to the Queens apartment, and Debi and Dad didn’t speak to me anymore. I was disowned. Birthdays and Jewish holidays were particularly painful. I once saw from my kitchen window Dad entering Debi’s building with flowers for Passover. When I turned 40, Val told me I had a call, and I ran to the phone while asking him if it was my father. The look on his face was pure pity, so I knew it wasn’t. Dorian was my champion, tried to mediate, and took my side as my protector. He always picked up the phone when I called him. It took three years before I convinced Dad to let me back into his life. Debi followed soon after.
Val and I bought a house together in Westchester. We remarried in the living room, our sons our only witnesses.
Aaron is grown now. He lives with his girlfriend in Washington Heights, and they talk of getting married. Oliver is 24 and home with us. He graduated from Queens College, like you and me.
I have a dog, Rhoda, whom I love more than anything in the world.
At the end of Dad’s life, he was sick for a month in the hospital. Every day the nurse asked him for his birthday, and he would proudly pronounce “3/25/25,” but on his actual birthday he couldn’t remember. In his delirium he called for you. “Ou est Yvette?” He is buried next to you in Mount Hebron. Soon it will be his 100th birthday.
We sold the house after Dad died. That was hard. Debi and I packed 40 years of memories with nowhere to put them. I still regret throwing out the shearling jacket you bought me in Italy and Dad’s certificate from the New York Institute of Technology.
Sometimes I wonder what you would make of the world I live in now:
Manicures and pedicures can cost $85 with tip.
Donald Trump is President.
The Twin Towers are no longer standing.
It is fashionable to live in Brooklyn.
There are no more phone booths and fewer and fewer parking meters.
Coins are insignificant.
Loehman’s and Lord & Taylor don’t exist, but Saks does.
No one dresses up or wears pantyhose. You would think they leave the house in their pajamas.
People hardly go to the movies. Miraculously, the Paris Theater is there. That’s where we saw Crossing Delancey, or maybe it was Cousin Cousine. The Ziegfeld, too. We saw Star Wars there with Dad on a hot summer night.
I get my hair colored by Javier, your colorist. I sought him out because I always loved your hair color.
I still go to Carmel on 108th Street to get lebne and pita and kashkaval cheese and sambousek.
All your friends are gone except for Vally. Do you remember when Val and I met you and Vally at the theater to see Three Tall Women, and we thought it was so funny that they had such similar names. She looks the same, by the way.
May died of cancer; all your sisters, too. They died after you, even though you were the baby.
Debi lost Stanley, and he is also buried in Mount Hebron.
Dorian will be 75 next month. He is still in Walnut Creek, although in a different house. He and Claudia had twins.
Debi is 70 and is in the same apartment. Alix Austin lives with her. Remember how she broke his heart when they were teenagers?
You have a great-grandson, Benjamin. He is three and looks like Chloe, and a little bit like Debi.
Dany never married.
I write a lot about you. It is like having you with me, especially how you laugh or the sound of your gold bangles. How you got mad at me for imitating your accent when I said, “When you are right, you are right.” How you couldn’t stop yourself from eating cheese and drinking the whole container of kefir.
I can cook almost all of your food, like gratin and mejadra, but not the rice pilaf.
I live in New Rochelle. I remember you used to go shopping there for clothing, and I thought it sounded so fancy. My house is shelved with all your precious books, and on the walls is the artwork you collected. I framed your library card with your signature, and I have it on my desk.
Laurie Anderson is still performing.
Spalding Gray died by suicide.
Pavarotti died, too. I had a chance to see him on stage at the Met.
Woody Allen continues to make movies, and he married Soon Yi.
I went to a dinner and Salman Rushdie was there. He wore a patch over one eye because he had been stabbed.
I won a prize for my writing. That was one of the times I missed you the most.
I also missed you when I got married and then when I got divorced. I missed you when I had Aaron and then Oliver. I missed that they didn’t know you. I missed you when I got fired from the bank because I couldn’t do it all, at least not well.
I miss you when I read a really great book and I can’t share it with you. Do you remember how we read all of Paul Auster’s books, one after the other? He is gone too.
I used to be afraid that I would forget your voice, but I now know I never will.
Love,
Lellybelle
Leslie Lisbona was featured in the Style section of The New York Times in March 2024.
Aside from Synchronized Chaos, the first journal that ever accepted her work, she has been published in JMWW, Smoky Blue Literary & Arts Magazine, and Welter. Her work has been nominated for Sundress Publications’ Best of the Net 2024 contest and won the nonfiction prize at Bar Bar Magazine (2024 BarBe Award) https://bebarbar.com/2025-barbes/
She is the child of immigrants from Beirut, Lebanon, and grew up in Queens, NY.
In today’s career-focused world, people have different views as to whether paying salary to workers depending on their productivity is a better approach to motivate them to work harder, particularly in professionally advanced communities. While there is a wide range of alternatives for encouraging employees to work harder, I firmly assert that paying salary based on their production and sales plays a crucial role for both employees and organizations.
First and foremost, there are obvious alternatives for motivating workers to work better. Once companies enforce free holiday opportunities for those who work efficiently, this makes a big difference in terms of a greater feeling of agreement and contentment, leading to a productive working process. So, workers are highly likely to be motivated easily. Furthermore, building a collective responsibility among colleagues in companies can be another method for encouragement. To be more precise, if workers learn how to collaborate, it seems unsurprising for them to experience a sense of leadership while simultaneously trying to show off their capability to their boss, thus resulting in a greater number of sales or production.
Meanwhile, despite these arguments, proponents of paying salary to employees based on their productivity cite compelling reasons to support their stance. To clarify further, productivity has been prevalently acknowledged for its effectiveness—a feature that sets it apart from other job sectors that pay all workers equally. As a result, it seems logical for companies to impose a certain amount of salary based on how much an employee produces, thereby motivating them to work harder. The more they produce or sell, the more income they earn. A good case in point can be my country, Uzbekistan, where a new initiative has been set up so that even part-time workers earn more due to their high amount of production or sales than full-time ones.
To sum up, although other initiatives such as cooperation among colleagues and free holiday chances offer some benefits, I strongly believe that only by paying workers based on their production or sales can we ensure that they take responsibility for working effectively.
Jasmina Rashidova, daughter of Bahodir, born on November 23rd, 2008, in the Shakhrisabz district of Kashkadarya Region, Uzbekistan. Currently, I am a 10th-grade student at the 74th school. I have earned recognition in various educational grants and have actively participated in international MUN conferences and meetings. I have also won several education-related contests and competitions, and I am a finalist in “BBG”, “FO”, “Katta Liderlar granti’25” and “VHG.” In addition, I run my own online teaching channel. I am also proud to be the recipient of a major leadership grant for my #pixelart & JR | INTELLECT project.
With the prevalence of social media and growing societal expectations, it has become increasingly common for individuals to voice their frustrations and opinions online, particularly in technologically advanced societies. While there are valid reasons for expressing dissatisfaction on such platforms, I strongly assert that this trend has both harmful consequences and meaningful benefits. On the one hand, it may increase negativity and affect mental health; on the other, it can raise public awareness and lead to quicker solutions for social problems.
One of the major consequences of this trend is the spread of negativity online, which can significantly impact individuals’ mental well-being. As more people share complaints and disappointments about their lives, it creates a cycle of emotional dissatisfaction that others are exposed to daily. This constant exposure can lead users to feel more anxious, discontent, or even inferior, especially when comparing their own lives to what they see online. Over time, such emotional stress can damage people’s mental health and reduce the overall positivity of online spaces.
Despite these downsides, public complaints on social media also offer a significant benefit: they can serve as a catalyst for change. By bringing issues such as poor infrastructure, low-quality services, or political concerns into the public eye, individuals can draw attention from government bodies, service providers, and the media. For example, in Uzbekistan, citizens often highlight poor road conditions via social platforms. In many cases, these posts go viral and prompt authorities to respond quickly. In this way, social media empowers ordinary people to contribute to community development and hold institutions accountable.
In conclusion, although venting frustrations on social media can negatively affect users’ mental health by spreading pessimism and stress, it also allows people to highlight societal problems and demand immediate action. Thus, while the trend may carry emotional risks, it plays a vital role in raising awareness and pushing for positive change.
My name is Rashidova Jasmina, daughter of Bahodir. I was born on November 23rd, 2008, in Shakhrisabz district, located in the Kashkadarya Region of Uzbekistan. I am currently a 10th-grade student at School No. 74.
Throughout my academic journey, I have proudly taken part in numerous educational grants, national seminars, and academic meetings. I am a winner of several contests and competitions dedicated to education and innovation. Notably, I was a finalist in both the “BBG” and “FO” programs, which further motivated my passion for leadership and community development.
One of my most prestigious achievements includes being awarded the “Katta Liderlar” grant, which recognizes young emerging leaders in Uzbekistan. I also had the honor of participating as a delegate representing Switzerland in a Model United Nations (MUN) conference, where I strengthened my skills in diplomacy, negotiation, and global issues.
In addition to my academic accomplishments, I run my own educational channel, where I teach and mentor students in various subjects. I am also the founder and instructor of a Pixel Art course, where I combine creativity with digital skills to inspire others in the field of design and technology.
Christopher Bernard celebrates the photography of urban chronicler Vivian Maier and the recent rediscovery of her work.
Gopal Lahiri’s poetry looks over varied landscapes – aging city infrastructure, a painted teatime scene, a rainstorm – with a painter’s thoughtful eye.
Wazed Abdullah draws on soft, childlike language to elegantly portray a monsoon rain in Bangladesh. Don Bormon writes in a similar style of the rain’s return in the region after a hot sunny summer. Tamoghna Dey speaks to the strength and flexibility of water as a metaphor.
Eva Petropoulou Lianou finds union with nature on her daily walk, taking inspiration from its diversity and authenticity. David Sapp’s poetry highlights our human connection to the rest of nature through musings on barns, fields, and a dead cat.
Chimezie Ihekuna revels in the beauty of nature and the intricate ways in which its systems work and creatures survive, but warns of its destruction. Graciela Noemi Villaverde also urges care for the natural world and highlights how natural systems can self-heal and regenerate.
Sayani Mukherjee revels in the passage of seasons in nature as Kylian Cubilla Gomez explores the hidden world of snails, centering the small mollusk in his photos. Sara Hunt-Flores reflects on the sun lighting her path, helping her distinguish illusion from reality.
Svetlana Rostova uses nature metaphors to convey the breadth and intensity of her past experiences. Mahbub Alam compares falling in love to the wonder of seeing a firefly. Shamsiya Khudoynazarova Turumnova illuminates the way love can revive a person and rejuvenate their life. Dr. Prasanna Kumar Dalai evokes memory and the ecstasy of falling in love. Mesfakus Salahin pleads with a lover to take him back as a response to his enduring feelings.
Stephen Jarrell Williams reflects on the poignancy and power of stories: those in books and those of family love and passing generations. Kassandra Aguilera’s poetry expresses love that remains despite troubled parental relationships. Bill Tope’s short story addresses a platonic and artistic friendship between a man and a woman and the tragic social disapproval that drives them apart.
Scott C. Holstad probes various sorts of physical and emotional desire. Duane Vorhees speaks to birth and death, love and war, then turns to a personal blues poem about feeling disillusioned by faith.
Gordana Saric offers up a prayer for personal compassion and global peace. Brian Barbeito shares daily musings on meaning and ethics and and speculates on our individual lives’ effects on the universe. Inayatullah encourages us all to look inward and heal our inner wounds and forgive each other in order to change the world on a larger scale.
Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa shares the hope and strength and healing she finds through her faith. K. Sayyid Mubashir Hadhi explicates the spiritual and cultural significance of Eid Al-Adha. Timothee Bordenave’s old-style pieces express his spiritual faith and desire for universal oneness. Bruce Mundhenke expresses how faith and wisdom can outlast our technologies and our inhumanity to each other. R.K. Singh calls us to ethnic and religious tolerance based on the world’s complex history and celebrates physical and spiritual love.
Dr. Jernail Singh speculates on how literature and drama, religious or not, can inspire moral development as well as catharsis, when villainy and evil are stopped. Matthew Kinlin interviews Kenneth M. Cale about the inspirations and creative process behind his book Midnight Double Feature: Director’s Cut, a stand against the growing darkness he sees in the world.
Lidia Popa describes the power of writing to transmute ideas and feelings into a mode of communication from one soul to another. Haroon Rashid outlines the role of silence, observation, and empty space for thoughtful writing in his ars poetica.
Xadjiyeva Nodira studies idioms and whether the phrases can take on different meanings within the same language. Kaljanova Gulmira’s paper outlines the benefits of having a language learner “shadow” a native speaker. Shahnoza Ochildiyeva’s essay explicates the complex task of translation and how, as of now, translation requires a human being with cultural awareness.
Isabel Gomes de Diego’s photography celebrates human and natural creativity in various forms: origami, sewing, typing. Bahora Mansurova turns to the craft of medicine, discussing ways to treat periodontal diseases. Linda S. Gunther reviews Kristina McMorris’ suspense novel of the newsroom, Sold on a Monday.
Nozima Gofurova describes an educational visit to Tashkent’s Mirzo Hotel, where she learned about Central Asian art and history. Joseph Ogbonna highlights the majesty and historical influence of ancient Egyptian civilization. Maja Milojkovic’s ekphrastic work draws inspiration from the strength of ancient Herakles.
Z.I. Mahmud explores feminist speculative literature in India and the works of Begum Rokeya Sakhawat Hossein. Bhagirath Choudhary, in a piece translated by Eva Petropoulou Lianou, advocates for respect for women and for society to celebrate positive traits traditionally associated with the nurturing feminine.
Eva Petropoulou Lianou speaks of her intimate and demanding relationship with her female poetic muse. Isaac Dominion Aju reflects on the artistic inspiration he received from Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, whose work helped him to find his own voice. Donna Dallas’ poetic speakers find writing inspiration from a quiet morning, a busy urban city full of desire, and the throes of drug addiction. Hauwa’u Naseer Mukhtar evokes the peace and creative source of solitude as Chloe Schoenfeld resolutely affirms her claim to her own soul.
Kelly Moyer’s asemic poetry invites us to the experience of appreciating writing and art, even without literal meaning. Ric Carfagna’s poetry touches on perception, how we experience and make sense of our world.
Loki Nounou reflects on life’s unpredictability, as S. Afrose exposes existence’s slippery nature, complex and hard to pin down and define. Utso Bhattacharyya’s short story involves an ordinary man’s visit to a surreal reality existing alongside and within our own.
Alex S. Johnson’s horror tale probes the insidious way oppression works not only through violence, but also through individual and social gaslighting. Mark Young’s poetry crafts off-kilter scenes where people and other creatures adjust to their settings.
J.J. Campbell turns to poignant nostalgia while experiencing slow trauma. John Angelo Camomot’s verse speaks to the grief of losing a loved one and the comfort of memories.
Sean Meggeson’s humorous tales probe our relationships with authority and failures of communication. On the theme of authority, Taylor Dibbert observes wryly that leaders who are least affected by policies are often the first to advocate for them.
Mykyta Ryzhykh’s short story depicts war as an unwelcome trespasser, refusing to communicate its intentions or ask permission to occupy someone’s basement. Ahmed Miqdad laments the suffering of civilians in Gaza while expressing hope for the region. Combat veteran Steven Croft speculates on goals for a possible return to United States military intervention in Afghanistan and hopes they will finally get girls back to school.
